


last dead canary

by foxika (kylonaberrie)



Series: clone-centric abo: one-shots from the discord [7]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Clone Trooper Culture (Star Wars), Hurt/Comfort but its bitter, M/M, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Episode: s06e04 Orders, Trans Clone Troopers (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylonaberrie/pseuds/foxika
Summary: it was a mercy kill -- no. it was a suicide -- no. it was an accident! -- no. well at least i tried.
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox & CT-7567 | Rex, CC-1010 | Fox/CT-7567 | Rex, CC-1010 | Fox/Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious, CT-21-0408 | CT-1409 | Echo/CT-27-5555 | ARC-5555 | Fives/CT-7567 | Rex
Series: clone-centric abo: one-shots from the discord [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028481
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	last dead canary

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [dead right there](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27963308) by [coruscantguard (nadiavandyne)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadiavandyne/pseuds/coruscantguard), [nadiavandyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadiavandyne/pseuds/nadiavandyne). 



> idk what to rate anytthing anymore. idk what to tag andything either. i dont even know where im going with this either. i dont know if this counts as foxrex. theyre just kinda in this shit and so am i
> 
> i read dead right there n got inspired and wrote this and then uhhhhhhhh idk
> 
> warnings:  
> \- rape (not the boys w each other tho)  
> \- violence n blood  
> \- miscarriage  
> \- rex n fox being fucked up about shit  
> \- alcohol n smoking  
> \- grieving  
> \- this has been described by more than one person as "brutal"
> 
> summary is lyrics from [the seamstress by dessa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ELsryzJ5Hpg)

You see Fox again two days later and break his nose before you even know what you're fucking doing. You're angry, you've been angry for the past two days, you've been angry for the past two fucking years, and right now it's all of it come to a head and there's a crack and blood spills in an arc as he's thrown to the side with the motion of it. He catches himself on the table, glares up at you, eyes sparking gold, and through the blood you see his teeth flash something between a snarl and a sick grin, and all you feel is hateful, concentrated rage.

You pull him up by the front of his civvies, his fucking  _ civvies, _ not caring what you do from here on out, but hands pull you off each other. You snarl, trying to break free, you just want to get at him, you just want to tear his fucking throat out, fuck the consequences, fuck everything. He snarls back, and the couple  _ vode _ who've got you are losing their holds, but then a third throws himself between y'all and grabs you by the neck of your blacks. Dimly you recognise the pawprint tattoos. It's his kriffing CMO. Well, if you have to go through her--

'What do you think you're fucking doing,' she snarls lowly.

You don't  _ think _ you're doing anything. Thoughts don't even enter into it. 'Let me at him,' you growl back.

'My  _ vod's _ been through enough.'

Her vod!  _ Her _ vod, her  _ vod! _ You bark a laugh that comes out another snarl. 'He's a kriffing brother-killer!'

She punches you, a slug across the jaw that comes out of nowhere. It doesn't hurt anything as bad as the people you're used to scrapping with, she's a fucking non-combat medic. You get your arm loose to shove her aside, she's not who you're mad at, just some fucking idiot defending a fucking traitor, and you hate her but you want Fox's blood in your mouth right now, not his fucking pet's. You catch sight of the guy who pulled him from you now holding him by his hoodie, snarling something, and Fox's reply:

'I had orders.'

All your anger and hate and sadness and pain and everything, fucking everything just fucking floods you, and then you're the one holding him instead, hearing the words 'He's mine,' without remembering saying them. He smells off, sickly and curdled and like blood and alcohol. The CMO whose name you don't remember and don't care about is trying to pry you apart again, getting herself between you like she's making a crowbar with just her arm and her snarling face. Fox looks fucking pathetic behind her, hair scruffy, blood down the lower half of his face, dripping on his clothes, eyes dead.

'Stop,' he says. You snarl. He sneers back. 'Get off, Tailor,' he clarifies.

'No.'

'Stand the fuck down and that's an order,' he snarls, shoving her from between you. You see a flash of startled fear in her eyes as she's dislodged, and you're taken by surprise enough yourself to not immediately kill him. He gets to his feet and you must do the same.

'No,' she repeats, righting herself, yanking her greys back into place. The brief weakness on her face has turned back to fierce anger. For a moment you're scared for her, in this place you don't know with this Fox you don't know, Fives and Krell and a lot of goddamn things flashing for a second in your mind. 'I won't let you do this,' she continues. He snarls, blood on his teeth, and she snarls back, but you know she's already lost. Angry little sister versus the eleventh most powerful clone in the GAR, and she doesn't scare you like he does.

You have onlookers, the  _ vode _ who pulled you apart initially and have since given up, several more nearby brothers, a couple worried waitresses. You've knocked over a table and its associated chairs, a few cups and sticky liquid spilled across the dark plastic floor. There are tears on your face. You can't bring yourself to care even as you calm down enough to notice.

'Let's take this outside,' Fox says lowly. His voice is different, from how you remember it ever being. Huskier, and rougher, and clouded from his nose, and so so much worse.

'Fine,' you say, a lump forming unbidden in your throat.

'Don't follow me,' he warns Tailor as he walks past both of you for the exit, still with that dark and dangerous thing living in his voice.

'Fuck you,' she spits. He doesn't look back. You follow him out, watching the back of his dark green hoodie.

Unarmoured, back turned. It would be so easy to--

You think of Fives and feel sick. You don't know what you want, but you know it isn't that.

He doesn't turn to face you til you're tucked in a side alley. 'So?'

'Fuck you,' you say now that you've lost your goal, your anger now heady and aimless. How he can just fucking stand there, casual as anything, leaning back against the wall of the building behind him, arms crossed. How he can just fucking--

'If you want.'

'Is this a fucking joke to you?' Your anger snaps again, not to the same heavy swinging head as earlier, but like a glowstick. Like something breaking.

He cocks his head, pushing off the wall to prowl closer. You can smell the alcohol on his breath. Something worse, too. 'What if it is.'

You sock him in the jaw, desperation pushing through your broken anger. Wild sadness. How the fuck can he talk like that?

How the fuck could he have done that?

What happened to your brother? Where is he, and why is this monster wearing his tattoos and teeth and mannerisms?

He doesn't fight back, just looks up at you ragged, shine flashing in his eyes. You breathe heavy. He's trying to egg you on, that much is clear. He wants this fight.

You hesitate on a precipice. There's part of you that wants to give it to him, to whet your teeth and anger, to make him fucking feel some fucking remorse. To make him suffer.

But there's another part too, the part of you that's never satisfied with anything but the truth. Why is he doing this? Is this his form of repentance, goading you into beating the mistakes out of him? Is this something else? You don't know anything about him anymore. For all you know he's a murderous  _ shabuir _ who's doing this just to watch you squirm.

It's hard to think, through the anger and the despair and the pain. But you think of Krell and you want to vomit. You look at Fox and you don't know if you're looking at a drunk asshole brother or the man who destroyed you, or something in between, or where your squadmate disappeared to between all of it. Ahsoka was enough, Ahsoka was-- complicated. You understood where he was coming from and why, even if you hated it. This--

_ I had orders. _

You want to break down crying. You want to kill him. You want to burn Coruscant to the ground, the Guard and the Senate and everything with it. You want to claw your own skin off.

'Would it help if I fought back?' he asks, still low, still dangerous. 'I don't see what's fucking holding you back. I killed him. I could've set my blaster to stun--'

You punch his face in with a sick crunch. He's shorter than you remember him, even. He looks like a completely fucking different person. Like you cornered the wrong brother by mistake. But it's him. The dissonance rattles you, but it's him. He looks ruinous. He looks ruined.

He wants you to beat him to a pulp. You're not going to give him what he wants.

You pin him to the wall by his shoulders, and maybe your hands are shaking, but it doesn't matter. His eyeshine has dimmed, gaze a little hazier from that last hit. His nose is going to be fucked. You feel bad for his medic, patching up this sorry excuse for a brother.

Does he want you to kill him? He walked here with his back to you. He gave you the opportunity. You're beating his bare face with your gauntlets, now wet with his blood. You could give in to your rage and hit him til he dies.

You're not going to. He may be an  _ auretii, _ but he's also your squadmate. You can't do it and you're not going to. You're not a brother-killer.

You're not him.

You wouldn't be surprised if this feeling killed you. That sure would make your life easier. Maybe that's what he's after. Blood drips from his nose.

'Why didn't you?' you ask.

He's silent. You can hear him breathing raggedly, hear the noise of the city, speeders and electronics and voices.

'Why didn't you take him in alive?' you press, and you don't recognise your own voice either.

'You think it would've saved him if I had?'

Terror starts screaming in the cacophony inside you, joined by outrage. 'That wasn't your call to make!'

'It was a mercy kill,  _ kih'vod, _ he attacked the fucking chancellor, and your anger isn't going to bring him back any more than an apology will,' he spits, every word twisted with hate and flecks of blood.

_ 'Hu'tuun,' _ you growl. 'There are things I could've done.' You saved Dogma. You would've saved Fives too, if Fox hadn't taken that chance away from you.

Even if you couldn't have-- he had something important he was trying to tell you. You would've listened, away from Skywalker's disbelief. You would've had more to work with.

It would've been better. Somehow. You would've found a way.

'There aren't. Stop acting like you're special.'

It's like a knife to your gut. 'And you don't think our brothers are worth trying to save?'

He laughs, bitterly and loudly, before he coughs on blood. 'You don't know shit, Rex. Three years of this and you're still an optimist. But I took the only decent way out, and you're going to have to live with that.'

Your nerves snap. He is so fucking wrong, this twisted bitter shell of a man giving up on all your brothers, and you have been walking around with this pain for far too long. You forget that you don't want to give in for long enough to punch him in the stomach, brutal between your gauntlet and the wall, and this high pitched noise escapes him, a fucking whimper, and you are so fucking hateful and so fucking done, that after everything he gets to be in pain, he gets to stop holding it all in, and you slam a second punch into him and he cries out.

You pin him by his neck. Whoever this is, it isn't your brother. This isn't Fox, who could be relied on to neither kick you out nor ask questions if you crawled into his rack at night, and who always would just hold you, hand warm and solid on the back of your neck. This isn't Fox, who sat with you in a silent kebalde for two hours when you told him about your squadmates. This isn't Fox, who taught you quietly how to survive while the others showed you how to flourish. This isn't Fox, twice as clever as any trainer and miles kinder, stealing from their pockets and showing you where to hide until their tempers settled down. This isn't Fox, who took beatings and shock batons for you when Cody wasn't there. This isn't Fox the reluctant advisor, Fox the secret keeper, Fox with gentle hands and chapped lips.

Something happened to him. You know something happened to you, too. But right now you don't care about being fair, or being honest, or any mercy or justice. Fives is dead. The same creature who killed your brother killed him.

Footsteps interrupt you, the familiar sound of plastic boots on stone, and then you recognise Stone as the person breaking your grip and pulling you away from Fox, arms like his namesake, one of the few bastards in the Guard with distinctive armour. You don't fight him, rage still thick in your throat but the moment broken. The  _ vod _ hauling Fox must be Tailor, another custom paint job with medic symbols on her shoulders and helmet, a  _ vod _ in Guard standard handling his other side as he goes limp and heavy, broken face leaning in to his CMO with something approaching softness.

Stone and another brother keep you restrained as you watch Fox disappear around the corner of the alleyway, leaving you with your pounding heart and swirling rage.


End file.
